


open the floodgates

by twitcher



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animalistic Behavior, Bladder Control, Desperation, Dom/sub, M/M, Omorashi, Pack Dynamics, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25491346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitcher/pseuds/twitcher
Summary: a collection of disjointed prompt-fills all about watersports for you & your family
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 209





	1. the life & times of a shy bladder

**Author's Note:**

> getting a piss kink was hands-down the worst thing that ever happened to me
> 
> written for the prompt _jaskier has a shy bladder & can't really piss *in front* of someone. Geralt thinks that him wandering far from camp just to take a leak is dangerous and, frankly, stupid, so he starts telling Jaskier to either piss where Geralt will see him or not piss at all, basically forcing him to wet himself in front of Geralt, hoping to train Jaskier out of his shyness. Jaskier is practically sobbing with humiliation as he pisses himself and Geralt keeps praising him for it, saying it's what's best for him_
> 
> just a short lil thing

"Where are you going."

Jaskier swears he'll teach Geralt to ask questions properly, one of these days.

Not today, perhaps. Definitely not now, when he has to squeeze his thighs desperately and squirm to keep his aching bladder at bay.

"I--nature, uh, calls."

He really doesn't have the _time_ to argue.

"You can piss here."

Jaskier knows. He knows, because Geralt does it all the time, whips out his cock and just _goes_ , off to the side, like it's no big deal.

He jumps from one leg to the other, leans forward a bit. Gods, he really has to go.

"I really, ah, would prefer some privacy, if you don't mind, so I'll just--"

"Jaskier. Piss. Here."

And, yes, Geralt keeps telling him it's not safe to go into the woods, but he just, he needs to get only far away that Geralt doesn't see him, what bad could happen?

"I can't. I _can't_."

It comes out too high-pitched for his liking.

The coldness of Geralt's gaze is piercing. Jaskier decides whatever this conversation is, they can finish it later. As he makes to sprint for the sanctum of the dense treeline, Geralt snatches his forearm in a bruising hold.

"You can take your pathetic cock out and _piss here_ , or not at all."

Jaskier huffs a breathless laugh. This is--it's the worst joke Geralt's ever tried to play on him. Because surely it is a joke, isn't it? Fucking ridiculous, he's a grown man, he can _go_ wherever he wants.

Except here, with Geralt watching.

"Geralt, I physically _cannot_ with you here." Maybe, if Geralt hears the despair in his voice, he'll let this up. " _Please_ ," Jaskier tacks on, just for good measure.

The grip on his arm does not relent.

He really has to fucking piss. Very, awfully, _urgently_. His bladder feels like it's throbbing, ready to burst with each shallow breath he sucks in.

"Can you--can you turn around, at least?"

Geralt narrows his eyes and does not, in fact, turn away.

Jaskier swallows against the tightness in his throat, the feverish splotches of warmth in his cheeks, and goes to undo his trousers.

He knows from the beginning it won't work. He knows his body, and he's never been able to relieve himself with someone watching. Fuck, not with anyone close enough that they'd hear him, even. It's the one part of his life that he can't stand an audience in.

So he stands there, Geralt's fingers steadily tightening around one arm, his own hand clutching his limp prick.

Jaskier tries so very hard, with all that he has, but not a drop comes out.

They stay like that for a few long, agonising minutes, Jaskier shrivelling under Geralt's harsh scrutiny.

His vision clouds with tears. Maybe if he cries enough he'll rid of all the liquid in his body.

He tucks himself back in with a hitch of breath and a searing, unrelenting pain in his abdomen.

Geralt finally releases his hold, Jaskier's skin first turning white, then red in the pattern of Geralt's fingers. He wouldn't be surprised if it bruised.

"Please, _please_ can I go now?" Jaskier asks, like he's a fucking schoolboy.

"No."

Geralt sits cross-legged on his bedroll, eyes never leaving Jaskier.

Jaskier, who can't hold it, really, he _can't_ , no matter how much he dances to maybe try and keep it in until nightfall, when he could sneak off to relieve himself while Geralt slept.

It wouldn't be for hours, and even if he somehow managed it--the chances of Geralt not waking up at the slightest noise would be slim.

The hatchling of a plan is birthed and dead in a whole of thirty seconds, if that, because _truly_ , Jaskier is helpless against his body's needs, even if it stubbornly refuses to cooperate.

The first few drops of wetness that soak his smallclothes are accompanied by a shuddering sob. Geralt's eyes shift from Jaskier's face to his crotch.

It comes in spurts, at first, short increments that feel like small orgasms with how horribly good it is to let go. Tremors shake his whole body. He has to bite down on the side of his fist to keep the wet sobs of pleasure down.

The stream evens out, long and hard until Jaskier's sure he can't possibly have more to give, but it just keeps coming, soaking his trousers wholly from his crotch all the way to his knees, dripping warm and slick down his legs.

When finally, finally it stops, after what feels like a whole millennium, is when the paralysing humiliation of it slaps him across the face.

Geralt looks between the sodden front of his trousers and the tear-tracks on his burning cheeks.

"Good."

***

The following night, Jaskier thinks he can catch Geralt by surprise, take off as fast as his legs will carry him and relieve himself before the witcher comes after him.

It doesn't work.

It somehow makes all of this worse.

"Let me up, Geralt, _Geralt_ , please--" Jaskier begs when Geralt sits on his thighs and pins his hands above his head, until he can't help but sully his trousers again.

Geralt rubs his cock through the wet material, doesn't bother pulling it out, so Jaskier dirties the garment further, sobbing uncontrollably. His witcher tells him how good he's doing. Jaskier wishes for death when Geralt says that this is what's best for him.

***

By the end of the first week, he doesn't even shed a tear, though shame still fills him to the brim each time he wets himself like a spoiled child.

Geralt has him on his knees, mouth stuffed full of cock until he pisses all over himself. It seems to get his witcher off remarkably quickly. He gets pulled to his feet, after, and Geralt presses his chest against Jaskier's back when he gets him off, hard and fast, the sound of it obscenely wet.

By week three, Jaskier still can't pull his cock out and piss with an audience, but he asks Geralt if he can get another drink of water, and the flush of humiliation only crawls as far as his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i take prompts on tumblr [@hardkinkbardkink](https://hardkinkbardkink.tumblr.com), and they do not, in fact, have to be piss-related


	2. sub!geralt & his piss-poor instincts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What about submissive urination? That align with you interests? Not usually an issue for Geralt cuz who the fuck successfully dominates a Witcher? But it's sort of hardcoded into them during Witcher training, Vesemir or someone up the pecking order censures you, you roll over and demonstrate your submission. Along comes Jaskier though, and they start messing with D/S dynamic and G keeps finding himself fighting not to piss the bed, or bedroll, or his trousers When Jask takes control in public..._

It's cruel, is what it is.

To condition him into certain behaviours, certain _reactions_ \--to ingrain them into his mind so wholly, and--

"The Path is brutal even without you pissing your breeches like a sorry pup."

And it's true, Geralt knows, except--

Well. Small matter. He prides himself on his self-control. Even if the instinct to submit stays worrying at the back of his brain, Geralt's will is stronger than his body's response. If he doesn't come across Vesemir or Eskel on the road, it remains dormant until he's back at the keep for winter. No overweight, slobbering baron poses a threat to his dominance.

A seemingly scrawny, colourful bard shouldn't, either.

Geralt bares his teeth and growls at him when Jaskier crosses boundaries he shouldn't come near. He wraps Jaskier all up in his cloak, switches their bedrolls to cover the bard in his scent.

It comes naturally to him. Jaskier seems receptive, or at least he doesn't belittle Geralt when he goes to contentedly lick at his neck.

Suddenly, Geralt can act on all of the impulses that have been trained into him.

He's so consumed by the thought, so enthralled, that he doesn't stop to think if he _should_.

Fucking Jaskier is a logical progression.

Being fucked by Jaskier is somewhat logical, too.

Getting split open on cock, slapped on the face and called a naughty pup is fulfilment for an unexpected, burning need.

Jaskier regards him with a cool, collected expression as Geralt writhes under him, drives his cock deeper into himself.

"Is my pup eager?"

Maybe it's the endearment, being called a _pup_ like he used to back in training. Maybe it's the indifference in Jaskier's voice, or his slender fingers trailing to wrap around Geralt's throat, a dull pressure on his trachea. Maybe it's simply being spread out on his back, helpless, Jaskier towering over him.

Maybe it's all of those things coming together that suddenly have Geralt _desperate_ to piss all over himself.

Gods. Gods.

He tries to draw his knees together, but Jaskier tuts at him, braces his hands on the insides of Geralt's thighs to keep them parted. He draws in a pathetic breath and tenses against the searing urge to let go.

"Oh, that's not very nice, is it?"

Jaskier speeds up, then, plows into Geralt so hard it jostles everything inside him. Geralt whimpers, just a bit.

Because Jaskier is--he's above him, now, isn't he? Geralt bared his throat and bared his belly and now Jaskier is his _alpha_ , and Geralt has to, he has to show that, doesn't he? So he--

"Please don't make me come," he pleads in a breathless whisper, because if he comes then he won't be able to keep it in.

Jaskier gives him a puzzled look, and perhaps he sees the glint of despair in Geralt's eyes, because he grips Geralt's balls in a choking hold and spends inside of him.

***

He'd become complacent over the years, the decades on the road. He'd never had to fight this one particular instinct so painfully hard. It seems like--like everything Jaskier does triggers the response. When they fuck, Geralt is always on his back, or on his knees with his face pushed into the dirt, mounted like a common bitch. Jaskier calls him a whore, a slut, a _sorry pup_ , like he can read Geralt's mind. He forces three fingers alongside his cock into Geralt's abused hole and asks if he'd take a werewolf's knot.

Geralt can't come with him, anymore. He goes unsatisfied for long, tortuous days until he can be far enough from Jaskier not to smell him as he gets off.

And the thing is--Geralt can control this fairly well, when it's just him and Jaskier. When he can focus, and brace himself. He squirms, and thrashes, and a suspicious wetness gathers at the corners of his eyes. But he can handle it. When he's prepared.

And then, one day, he isn't prepared, and the world stops.

He doesn't slip fully into this--this submissive role when they're in public. He keeps his expression neutral, if vaguely threatening, sits obediently where Jaskier directs him and glares at anyone who looks like they mean harm.

And, well. Maybe the red-cheeked boy that approaches Jaskier towards the end of his set isn't exactly a threat. But he's--encroaching on Geralt's territory. He's got a hand on Jaskier's thigh as he whispers in the bard's ear, and he's _touching what doesn't belong to him_.

Geralt's across the tavern with a fistful of linen shirt before he knows it. The boy turns, offended, takes a look into Geralt's narrowed eyes and runs with his tail between his legs. Geralt doesn't even have to tell him to go. Good. He makes to go back to his seat, but Jaskier's suddenly icy voice pins him in place.

"What do you think you're doing, pup?" He adds on the moniker so quietly Geralt doubts anyone else heard. It makes him shudder. "Because it looks to me--" Jaskier steps closer, stands in front of Geralt with his head high and his shoulders square. "--like you're making a scene."

Jaskier probably doesn't mean it like this, probably didn't think about the words much, or the stance. But his tone, his attitude screams _alpha_ , and Geralt averts his gaze quickly, slumps his back, and before he knows it, fuck, fuck--

His breeches are black leather. The spot doesn't show, no, but once his smallclothes are soaked he can feel piss drip down his thighs, his knees, fuck, into the boots that he's tucked his trousers into. Gods.

Jaskier gives him a thorough look, his brow furrowed, nose scrunched as the acrid smell of piss fills the stale air. Geralt knows it's not the brightest idea to turn his back on Jaskier, not now, but he does it anyway, scurrying to hide away in the stables.

The slick squelch of his leathers is inappropriately arousing.

***

When Jaskier asks what's wrong, Geralt clenches his jaw tightly and doesn't answer.

When Jaskier puts his arms around Geralt's waist, his very clearly, very temptingly hard cock pressing against Geralt's backside, Geralt slips from his grasp with a mumbled excuse.

When Jaskier starts ripping at his clothes and fixes him with a stone-cold gaze, Geralt lets himself be pushed face-down onto the damp earth, because he's weak.

"You've been very bad lately, you know that?" Jaskier asks as he pushes two slick fingers into Geralt. He's not as loose as he'd been. It burns. "You don't have to _put out_ , pup, but if you won't talk to me, well."

It's a wonder the third finger even fits, so quickly. The stretch is merciless. Geralt can't help whining a bit as he pushes his hips back, a spark of raw pleasure crackling along his spine.

The slow push of Jaskier's thick cock into him is agonising. Geralt wishes for the ground to open up and swallow him when he rocks back onto the length splitting him in twain.

"Fuck, but you _are_ tight when you don't whore your greedy hole out every night."

Geralt moans entirely too loudly.

He tries to shift sightly. Tries to get more comfortable for what he suspects is going to be a long, brutal coupling. Except Jaskier doesn't let him move, Jaskier pushes his face into the dirt with a harsh grip on his hair.

"Stay."

It's a simple command. One word. But the way Jaskier says it--guttural, deep, so unlike his regular songbird voice--

" _Fuck_."

The stream is weak at first, when he still tries to stifle it. Gods, he didn't even realise he was full at all, but it feels so _good_ to let go, to have Jaskier keep fucking him through it, to finally submit like the lowly whore he is.

"Oh, did my pup have an accident?"

Geralt shivers violently when Jaskier seems to hasten his pace, his sack slapping heavily against Geralt's. Every thrust makes him piss harder, a constant pressure-pleasure until it's nothing but a pathetic trickle.

"Is this what you wanted the whole time, darling?"

A hand winds around his sensitive cock, and he wants to sob.

"'s a wolf thing," he manages in response, though to his ears it sounds slurred.

Jaskier pets his cock with slow, teasing touches, pounds into him so hard Geralt's thighs shake.

"Next time I'll have you on your back, so you'll make a mess all over yourself."

Geralt comes so hard his vision spots.


	3. the ruined thread count of silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So what about a situ where Jask (or geralt, but the frentic ridiculousness feels like a J thing) is trying real hard to Stay hard so he doesn't pee? Maybe they are tied up together, and he's trying to focus on the ropes and not his bladder, so he doesn't pee on Geralt? Or, games they play, (consensual or CNC is more my speed, but no worries) one getting the other hard when he has to piss so he Can't piss, and then maintaining stimulation long after..._

"Geralt."

Jaskier sways from side to side, his legs clamped tightly together, to really drive home the _urgency_ of his state.

"Do you think you could--somehow, maybe, get us out of here any quicker?"

He can't see Geralt's face, tied back-to-back as they are, but he can practically hear his glare of discontent.

"I'm just _saying_ , darling--and of course this isn't meant as an attack to your prowess as a witcher--but don't we find ourselves in this position excessively often?"

He's rambling. Not in fear, anymore, they really do get captured with a certain regularity, what with the war brewing and the armies aplenty--but it's, well, rather embarrassing, just how badly Jaskier has to piss.

The rope is rough around his wrists, tight across his chest and arms, chafing where it's pressed to the front of his neck. It's a sufficient distraction, he supposes, if Geralt isn't feeling talkative.

They hadn't played with restraints in a while, but Jaskier recalls through a pleasant haze the wonderful helplessness that swells in his chest each time, relying only on the kindness of his witcher. He tugs on the ropes, as he would if Geralt was in the middle of wringing an earth-shattering release out of him, relishing the slide of course rope against the sensitive skin of his wrists.

Jaskier moans entirely too loudly.

Geralt freezes behind him, but quickly goes back to fiddling with their bonds.

The burning pressure in Jaskier's abdomen dulls into a faint ache, overshadowed by the simmer of fervent arousal. His cock rises to press up into the seam of his trousers, nice and stimulating and Jaskier can't help thrusting his hips up even against the ties. Moving jostles his full bladder painfully, but the sparks of pleasure dampen the need.

" _Jaskier._ "

His witcher does get them out, eventually, and they run out to the real world out of breath (Jaskier) and achingly hard (also Jaskier).

Geralt raises an eyebrow in apparent amusement when Jaskier whips out his cock and prays for it to soften, so he can finally fucking piss.

"I stole the rope, Geralt, and you _will_ tie me up with it."

***

It is, possibly, the most fatal mistake of Jaskier's life.

Not the ropes, those never fail him.

No, but Geralt seems absolutely _enthralled_ by the capacity of Jaskier's bladder and his bizarre ritual of keeping it at bay.

"Everyone already expects a bard to be suggestively aroused, Geralt," he explains, casually as he can, and Geralt's expression is absolutely unreadable. "Doubt they'd rather I pissed my pants in front of them."

Geralt hums his understanding, and that's that.

Until.

It's only a few days, and Jaskier's managed to forget all about the thing. It's a talent. A gift. It's a curse, because they're about to go to sleep--under the stars, like the barbarians they are--when Jaskier says, without thinking,

"Gods, I have to piss."

It's a regular exclamation. Their relationship is steady enough in its romance that Jaskier doesn't risk killing it. He tells Geralt he's going to take a leak, so that Geralt knows, and he takes the leak, and it's the most mundane non-occurance.

_Until._

"Wait."

Jaskier doesn't have an _abundance_ of time to spare, but he stops to look at his witcher with curiosity.

"Yes, dear?"

Geralt looks to the side, and then he looks Jaskier straight in the eye, his golden gaze burning.

"Can you hold it? Like you did--?"

Oh. _Oh._

Oh, no.

"Not without assistance," Jaskier says slowly, because if that's how it's going to be, then he'll shoot his shot.

Not that he has to try particularly hard to get Geralt to touch him, these days.

Sitting down is a painful affair, the waistband of his breeches putting so much pressure on his swollen bladder he doesn't think he'll make it--but he's pulled to perch in Geralt's lap, and maybe he'll bear this horrible burden a little longer.

Especially when Geralt pulls his trousers open, gets a hand around Jaskier's rapidly filling cock. And Geralt knows what he likes, he did from the very beginning--maybe Jaskier is just _easy_ , small matter, when it accomplishes the one solitary goal of making him hopelessly aroused within minutes. Seconds. He _is_ easy.

It's a familiar dance, his urgent need to piss giving way to desire, even if it lingers at the back of his mind.

Jaskier lets himself press his panting mouth to Geralt's in a pitiful mockery of a kiss. Because Geralt _knows what he likes_ , gods damn the bastard, and Jaskier's hurling towards the edge before he can do as much as blink, and he used to be able to keep himself in check--but he can't, not anymore. Not with his cruel, wicked witcher playing him in perfect pitch.

He can taste the blinding pleasure at the back of his tongue, the sweet release, he--

"No, _nononono_ , Geralt, what are--I was--"

"I know," Geralt says quickly, kissing Jaskier's cheek chastely. "I know. How long can you--"

"No, Geralt--"

"--hold it? How long until--"

"Fuck. _Fuck_." He sucks in a breath, and it feels like his lungs might burst just like his bladder nearly does. "Fuck, let us find out."

The sharp edge retreats, fades in urgency, until it's far enough that Geralt can touch him again.

Gods, Jaskier must be a fool to do this.

And yet he stays in Geralt's lap, rolls his hips like he was born to do it. Lets his witcher stroke his cock with feather-light pressure and then a brutal, achingly perfect persistence. Tries very, awfully hard not to dwell on exactly how much water he'd had to drink, before. How much water Geralt had insisted he drink.

"Please let me come," Jaskier sobs after the third time the coil in his abdomen tightens and squeezes and drives him to madness. "Geralt, I have to--"

Geralt groans and mouths absent-mindedly at Jaskier's throat.

"Just one more."

A shiver goes through him at the rough despair in Geralt's voice.

He fears he won't make it. He'd never pushed his body this far over the limit, never put it up to trials so merciless--fuck, it doesn't even help to have Geralt rubbing his cockhead with determined little circles, it doesn't matter that he's desperately, improbably hard. Jaskier's going to piss all over himself and it feels like there's nothing that can stop him.

"Let me up, let me up, Geralt--"

But the arm around him squeezes tighter, and Geralt's fingers move with purpose on his cock, and Jaskier can feel the overwhelming relief building higher and higher and he can't be sure which release will catch him first.

He's suspended over a great chasm for a horrible moment, weightless and helpless as his body stiffens, the world going too-bright, too-sharp around the edges.

" _Jaskier_ ," his witcher says faintly, and they both watch his spend paint the black of Geralt's shirt with stripes of white.

It's so overwhelming, so indescribably good, Jaskier forgets about his other issue, until--

He tries to get away, he does; but the relief of finally getting to piss is a feeling so intense, Jaskier can't even think about the thread count of his soiled trousers, or the way Geralt's increasingly wet shirt sticks to his abdomen, or the fact that he's wet himself in Geralt's lap at all. He just moans as his overfull bladder empties, collapsing limply against Geralt's chest, a tremor crawling up his spine.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, fuck--"

Geralt rocks beneath him, only slightly, only enough to make the neverending stream go absolutely everywhere, and then--

"Oh," Jaskier breathes, stunned. " _Oh_ , you filthy old man," as he grinds against Geralt's spent cock, still in his leathers.

They both sit still for a moment, panting in exertion--or maybe it's just Jaskier that can't catch his breath, but it doesn't matter, because they're all wet and disgusting and Geralt _came_ because of it, gods help them both.

"If you want to do this again, I'm wearing your clothes," Jaskier says after a moment, and Geralt groans like the concept physically pains him.

**Author's Note:**

> i take prompts on tumblr [@hardkinkbardkink](https://hardkinkbardkink.tumblr.com), and they do not, in fact, have to be piss-related


End file.
